


Delaying the Inevitable

by olivestrees



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Vacation, what vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29774184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivestrees/pseuds/olivestrees
Summary: “You killed Ian Rider,” Alex said. “He was my uncle.”Yassen shrugged. “I kill a lot of people.”“One day I’ll kill you.”“A lot of people have tried.” Yassen smiled.Or, alternatively: four times Yassen has escaped death, and the one time it involved a young Alex Rider and his irate guardian.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Delaying the Inevitable

_Deauville, France_

In late July, the temperature in Deauville is just about reaching its annual peak. Tourists wander aimlessly along the expansive golden shoreline, which is peppered with colorful umbrellas. Overhead, tufts of white clouds float on a canvas of bright blue. The most striking element of the picture-postcard view is the jewel-blue waves, which lap gently at the feet of giggling children as they race across the Normandy coast. 

The stone-faced man walking on the the beach’s boardwalk registers none of this. His movements are economical and precise, carrying a cat-like grace that imbues a lightness to his step. He’s dressed for the weather, with a loose-fitting white T-shirt and dark trousers. Any passerby who happens to glance his way will see a self-assured young man, perhaps in his late twenties, striding with purpose to wherever the next stop is on the vacation itinerary. Inconspicuous, if a little odd with his refinement of movement and cold expression. It takes a special sort of person, after all, to look upon this view and remain emotionally untouched.

The man is Yassen Gregorovich, a trained assassin who has been in SCORPIA’s employ for almost a decade. His meteoric rise in the ranks over the last few years has been the product of steely resolve and extraordinary resilience. Over the years, he’s developed an unerring ability to avoid mistakes, coupled with a healthy dose of paranoia. Even now, casually strolling under the cover of an unremarkable tourist, the contract killer is assessing for potential threats. A loitering tourist. An out-of-place sign. Any minute detail hinting that something may come in between him and his destination, just over a kilometer away.

Ten minutes later, Yassen approaches the rendezvous site arranged by his contact, an underling for SCORPIA’s latest client. Apparently, the client wants them to meet to discuss Yassen’s new assignment. It’s a deviation from his usual manner of briefing, which comes from SCORPIA itself. Yassen prefers an impersonal file to be reviewed and memorized over…whatever this is. He supposes a briefing directly from the client’s side can be helpful for clarifying ambiguities that might be found on paper (and it eliminates a paper trail), but all the same, meeting somewhere public introduces a number of uncertainties he would much rather avoid. 

Despite his reservations, he goes along with it; it is generally good practice to stay on the good side of whoever is paying you. Especially this client, in particular. SCORPIA had emphasized the state of their relationship with this one, which can only be described as tenuous, at best.

He has done his research well in advance; the location is a high-end restaurant, under a five-storied building off a busy intersection. Easy to escape — in fact, Yassen has memorized no less than seven escape routes — but extremely exposed. The restaurant is in plain sight of the thriving businesses in the area, and cameras line the boulevard that leads up to it. Not to mention the rooftops surrounding the intersection. He's already cleared them during his walk-through, though anyone who knows how to pick locks and dismantle the high-level security system can gain access. The situation is far less than ideal; Yassen would prefer a more secluded area to discuss highly confidential and incriminating details. However, he can see the merits of such a location. With the rocky history between SCORPIA and the client, it always pays to have insurance. If either of them try anything, everyone from the authorities to the fishermen at the harbor will see.

The contact greets him at the front entrance, where several tourists dine in the space for an enclosed sidewalk café. He’s a stocky man, maybe an inch shorter than Yassen, with a lopsided smile that oozes charisma. Unlike Yassen, he is dressed in more formal wear: a dapper three-piece suit and buffed and polished dress shoes. There is something undefinably slimy about him in spite of the easy smile, from the arrogant twinkle in his eyes to the golden crown embedded in one of his white teeth.

Yassen is instantly on guard.

 _“Bonjour, Monsieur Richez._ How was your trip here?” The contact spreads his hands in a gesture as wide as his smile.

“Fine. You have the information?”

“I do. Let’s head on in, shall we?”

That’s another thing. Sharing a meal in public, surrounded by civilians. Yassen knows how to remain inconspicuous and blend into his surroundings, but he’s on edge with an unknown man as company.

The interior of the restaurant is just as lavish as Yassen remembers, from when he’d walked through the place a week prior. There’s an Art-Deco-inspired feel to it, with geometric designs adorning the high ceiling and a twinkling chandelier that scatters light over gilded furniture. The carpets and curtains are a royal blue. Deceptively luxurious, especially considering the comparatively shabby exterior. But at this point, Yassen knows better than to judge a book by its cover.

A smiling hostess greets them with aplomb. Yassen calmly responds to her in flawless French, and she leads them to a reserved table situated close to the back of the room. This table has the best line of sight to all the entrances and exits, and the vantage point provides an ideal view of most of the restaurant’s patrons. Yassen slides himself into the seat facing the front windows, so he can observe the streets as he eats.

His contact seats himself opposite of Yassen. He plasters on a convincing smile. “You want to order? I hear the _cognac dijon_ sauce that comes with the lamb is exceptional.”

Yassen already knows what he wants, something he’d arbitrarily decided on that isn’t too filling. He says as much, and the contact nods, unsurprised. 

As they wait for the food to come, Yassen’s eyes skate over the rest of the interior. He’s re-familiarizing himself with the geography of the room. The route to the kitchen, the exits, the bathrooms. His eyes sharpen on an old lady who exits the ladies’ restroom.

At the same time, he attempts to tune in to the idle chatter of the contact. The man is irritatingly unprofessional in that regard, but Yassen knows the type: hired more for his personality than competence, covering up lack of experience with effusive chatter that is meant to put Yassen at ease, but actually does the exact opposite. He can feel his temples start to throb.

Even as chatty as the contact is, he at least knows to keep his voice low. That’s another factor Yassen had considered — the table offers them some form of privacy, even as insubstantial it may be in a public setting.

After an extended wait characteristic of luxurious dine-ins, the mouth-watering smell of pan-seared fish and tart red wine announces their food’s arrival. The food is brought in on sizable platters covered in cloches, which are polished to such a degree that they reflect the ornamental ceiling overhead.

Yassen waits for the contact to take his first bite before reaching for his silverware. 

As he’s cutting into his snapper, some sixth sense twinges in alarm. It’s enough for him to throw himself sideways as his ears register a tinkle and a dull thud. Behind where his head would have been, the elaborate wood carvings on his chair splinter. 

In retrospect, Yassen’s not quite sure what alerted him. Maybe it was the faintest movement from across the street. If he had looked closer, perhaps he would have caught the nearly indiscernible shape of a man flattened on the rooftop, half-hidden by scaffolding. Most likely, it’s the animal-like instinct honed over years of deadly field work and the inevitable scrapes that come attached. He doesn’t dwell on it; what he should be doing is reassessing his previous actions; pinpoint where exactly he went wrong. He should have questioned the dubious relationship between SCORPIA and the client. He should have picked the rendezvous himself. When it comes down to it, though, he should have simply refused the job. SCORPIA wouldn’t have been pleased, but as one of their most reliable agents, he can afford to be picky.

For the time being, he concentrates on getting himself out. The contact is already moving, limbs a fluid arc of motion as he lashes out. The deadly glint of a knife catches Yassen’s eye as he dodges. Miraculously, a waiter passing by drops her tray in a thunderous crash, drawing the attention of everyone in the room and, most importantly, shattering the contact’s focus for the briefest of seconds. 

Capitalizing on his advantage, Yassen upends the table, the untouched food spilling towards him. Another bullet flies into the wood of the table. He keeps himself low and constantly moving as he launches himself around the mess. Latching both hands around the wrist gripping the knife, he sinks to the floor, dragging his weight down so that the assailant is hard-pressed to lift his arm. He violently twists the wrist inward. 

The contact howls; his face turns red as he’s forced to release the knife or settle for a broken wrist. Yassen delivers a swift uppercut to the chin, causing his head to snap back and effectively knocking him out.

He lets the body slump as he stands up and pockets the fallen knife. 

The restaurant around him is in chaos. Some of the more sensible diners hasten towards the exit; others gape, stupefied, at the scene before them. The waiter who dropped her tray is on the phone, lips moving at a speed that Yassen can’t hope to read.

It’s time to go.

He keeps low as he weaves his short way to the back entrance, on the other side of the rooftop sniper. A young waiter attempts to stop him. _“Monsieur!”_ he protests, but Yassen pushes past him. 

Silently, he slips out into the fading evening light. Behind him are the sounds of approaching sirens. 

He isn’t concerned about the authorities. Come morning, Monsieur Richez will be nowhere to be found.


End file.
